“You didn’t have in the past. But now you’ve been mixed up with anarchists and murderers. I should wait and see what the New York papers say about you before you book a passage.”
Suddenly unsure, Mrs Langhorn looked from her to Ranklin. “I’m not going to be welcome in England, am I? I should think you’ll see to that.”
“That rather depends on who you are.”
She frowned, puzzled.
He reached to tap the newspaper. “I don’t think there’s any easy way to break this to you, but you’re dead.”
A procession of emotions flickered across her face: fear, then bewilderment, finally mistrust. He smiled reassuringly. “The charred body of a woman with your identity papers and passport on her was found in the cottage at Trilbardou. The false Mrs Langhorn sent to the Ritz yesterday, of course, but the Surete don’t know that.”
“But I can prove I’m alive! All sorts of people . . . and Grover – when he’s free – will say I’m me.”
“Oh yes, you shouldn’t have any trouble about that. But not many people get the chance of a new start, and I suggest you think of the alternative before you turn it down. You were on that barge, you have been part of Kaminsky’s gang, and as the only surviving member, the Surete will want to ask you all sorts of questions. The Prefecture, too. And if you tell the story about Grover being the King’s son – which you can’t actually prove, can you? – I’m sure his birth certificate gives your husband as the father. In fact, I don’t think you can even prove you were the King’s mistress: we couldn’t. And the more you try, the more you’ll tie yourself up in the plot against the King. And even if you talk your way out of that, you’ll have all your enemies back in force. Er . . . that’ll include me.” He smiled apologetically. “Sorry and all that, but we really will make life hell on earth for you and Grover if you come back to Britain, and also see what we can do to keep you out of America. As for what France does to you . . . well, that’s up to the Surete. But we’ll give them any help they need.”
She looked at him, letting all this sink in – then broke down. Her pert face crumpled and her shoulders shook with sobs. “What can I do?” she wailed. “I’m just one poor woman against all you police and authority and all . . . You stamp on me like an insect, you do . . . The poor people in this world have got no rights, they’ve got no justice. None at all.”
Corinna had got hold of the paper by now. Without looking up, she said unsymparhetically: “You sound like an anarchist.”
And again, Ranklin had to remind himself that the woman had once been an actress. He waited in silence, and she dabbed at her eyes quickly. Was it cynical to think that was so he wouldn’t see how few tears there had been?
She gave one last sob, and stopped.
“Or,” he said, “you could start a new life with a pension. And if you pick that, we’ll give you all the help we can.”
There was a long, long silence. Then Mrs Langhorn asked: “How much?”
“This time,” he told St Claire and Harland, “I’m vouching for her. Don’t worry about passports and papers, just get her to sign up and hand over the first dollop of pension.”
That flummoxed them. Harland frowned and said: “We haven’t got any cash to disburse.”
“Good God, man, you weren’t expecting her to settle for a cheque or some vague promise? Get it from the bank-”
“On Sunday?”
“Then from the hotel. Haven’t you ever seen soldiers at pay day? They’ll stand for all sorts of stoppages and allotments if they can see real money on the table.”
Luckily St Claire had supervised at pay days. “We’ll get it, never fear. And perhaps it would be a good idea to throw in a passage to England?”
“Distinctly good idea.”
“But who will she be when she gets there?”
“Luckily she’s got a part half-written for her already: her own sister, the widowed Mrs Simmons. It has to be some relative so she can scoop in Grover. And she plays the part rather well, I can vouch for that, too.”
“But she won’t have any of the paperwork, birth and marriage certificates and . . . Oh.” He caught Ranklin’s patient look. “Your Bureau, of course. Perhaps we’d better not know about that.” He and Harland exchanged glances. “Then just give us an hour to raise the wind and send the lady up.”
“And what are you going to do yourself, now?” Harland asked.
“I’ll probably escort Mrs Simmons back to London and help find her lodgings there until she decides where to go. But first -” he sighed “- I’ve got an interview with the Surete to get through. Still, they have killed off an anarchist gang and wiped the eye of the Prefecture, so if I can convince them they’ve saved the King’s visit here, they may settle for that. I used to laugh at the French police for being so political, but thank God they are. And then arrange with the consulate to get Lieutenant Jay’s body shipped home.”
“If you need any help from the Embassy . . .” St Claire said quickly.
“Thank you.”
There was a silence that became awkward with unsaid things. Ranklin gave a little shrug and turned towards the door. St Claire said: “I hope you think it was worth it. It was, you know.”
Ranklin nodded, meaning nothing. St Claire went on: “All sorts of things that could have happened now probably won’t. There are always casualties; that’s what we’re for. And to do the best job we can. Nobody can ask more than that.”
Ranklin nodded again. It was the right speech for a major to make to a junior.
“What will you tell Jay’s parents?” St Claire asked.
“That he died on His Majesty’s service, I suppose.”
23
Gorkin wasn’t in what O’Gilroy said was his usual cafe, though the posters on the walls and the intensity of the conversations at the tables told Ranklin he’d got the right place; this was the intellectuel version of the Deux Chevaliers. He felt badly out of place there and stayed only long enough for a small coffee. He didn’t ask about Gorkin, either. He wanted it to be a casual encounter. After that, he tried several more cafes along the Boulevard Saint Michel, then headed for a smaller place which Gorkin seemingly didn’t use but was almost opposite his apartment house.
O’Gilroy was slumped at a table one row from the window, reading a newspaper.
“He could be in, could be not,” he reported. “But he had another visitor half an hour ago: Berenice. Dressed up like . . . like a real tart. All paint and an orange fur stole and a purse.” He was trying to keep the censoriousness out of his voice. “Only there twenty minutes, so mebbe he was out and she waited jest that long.”
“Damn. Was the little bitch reporting to him what we’d been up to?”
“Don’t know. Like I said, mebbe she didn’t see him.”
“And the concierge let her in dressed like that?”
“One of these places that only has a concierge night and mornings. Afternoons, ye jest walk in and knock on the door.”
“Damn,” Ranklin muttered again, thinking. Maybe he should cut and run now, concentrate on getting Mrs Langhorn back to England. But he’d be leaving a loose end: if Berenice had been blabbing to Gorkin, he had to try and find out what she’d told him. Which meant either trying to dig her out, down in La Villette – which he didn’t fancy – or seeing what Gorkin might say. And of the two, Gorkin was the talker; Messiahs are.
He sighed. “I’ll go up and see. You hang on here.”
The building was quiet, except for someone practising on a violin somewhere; perhaps that itself told how empty it was at that time. Gorkin’s apartment was at the front on the first floor, and the door was slightly open. Ranklin pushed, then knocked and called softly, but got no reply. The open door surprised him and made him wary of a trap, but he still wasn’t going to pass up the chance of a look around.